Rural Poetry Celebration 2007 Winners

2007 Celebrating Rural Poetry Winning Poems

(Photos courtesy of Max Miller)

The Celebration of Rural Poetry continued at the Nebraska State Capitol Building in Lincoln on May 4. Six of the nine winning student poets were in attendence to read their winning poetry, alongside Nebraska poets Twyla Hansen and Bill Kloefkorn, judges of the poetry competition.

Serenity filled the air as twilight approached the fading day. The night engulfed and captured what remained of the fragile, swirling, vortex of light with hands that waited for the morn to release it. Endeavors ceased as the tranquil song of paradise enveloped the mind like an elixir, lifting its inhabitants high above the vast ground to devour the senses. They indeed soared, Above the richly plaid mound of fortitude, Above the bountiful fresh foliage of the crisply captivating trees, Above the sweet downy clouds, Above anything you can dream or desire until there was no point of return, Only to be brought swiftly back down to repeat it another day. Apprehension dazzled the wind as it swept serenity away to fill the awakener's lungs, The night departed to welcome twilight, as colors swirled the hands let go, Waiting, Yearningly, To capture the ravishing light again, until the next, On the flat, roaring plains.

After impatient hours in the pickup, we turned onto Grandpa's ranch, the camper waiting for another summer in the sandhills. The pull-out coach and table transformed into a stiff bed (we never cared). So young and far out west, we hadn't a care in the world

Long journeys through the pasture riding Brownie and Duke leading us to Sunflower City and Prairie Dog Town . The scorching heat unnoticed with each strong gust of wind, tall grass forming ocean-like waves. Trailing close behind, Grandpa raced the Gator with danger over steep hills, Grandma frozen with fear and too angry for words.

On a dusty country road we spied a farm destroyed by a tornado years ago. like secret detectives we investigated every inch of the house, bedrooms with curling wallpaper and rusty spring beds, kitchen stoves and cupboards filled with bird and rat nests, the great hole in the living room to the basement. The real treasure was in the barn, old perfume bottles, still filled to the brim, scented strong and sweet, wrinkling my nose, and a cracked dish set thrown from the house, our ancient treasures.

"Going once, going twice...SOLD, to number 11!" Tears blurred my last look at the camper, our memories the only thing left: the Loup City swimming pool, Grandpa's fibs about lions running loose nearby, gazing from the top of the camper at the clashing of a thunderstorm with the sunset, gummy bears at the Cafe, and laughter as swelling from a bee's sting blocked all vision from my sister's eye- these memories roll away with the hills...

Feel the frigid water as it flops against your worn waders submerged smartweed grabs your ankles like a toddler's touch begging you to go back to the warmth But you continue.

Converse with the cattails as they sight in the breeze beckoning you to keep warm in their leaves and hide in their stems They have become your trench.

Study the sky a vibrant fruit basket of oranges and yellows speckled with black dots they use their wings as parachutes sinking softly into the fruit basket's reflection on the water You are waiting for them.

Raise your weapon their iridescent feathers flicker catching a glimmer from the rising sun set the scope as they swim towards you gaze at them through your powerful lens Slowly squeeze the trigger.

Glance at the prey as your camera spits back its image. The trophy has been won.

Rain After Midnight-by Matt Miller

A blanket of soggy clouds, illuminated by a tiny cafe Crowded with old farmers, carrying coffee cups Watching the rain clean pasted dirt from the window sills

This dreary snow day stacks a good five inches, a chilled blanket, hiding all remains of fall. The sun reflects off the smooth crystals, a blinding shimmer. I take this challenge as an excuse, proving I am tougher than I look. I slide open the new glass door, appreciating nature's perfection. I force my naked, frail feet into the icy cotton which only weeks ago hugged lush grass. It is a frank footprint, piercing the untouched frost. A chuckling "Go!" forces Dad and me into the snow. It hurts so bad I can only laugh. A rhythmic pattern builds up in my gangly legs like thunder a repetitive nonsense right now too important to lose. Dad is my opponent and my desperation to win stings my feet again. This isn't a life or death situation, a mere rivalry to fool myself with pride. I'm going as far as my numb feet can take me a tight spin allowing reality to notify me I still have a full yard back to the house. I try following my previous footprints, hoping it will somehow get me back first. Once numb, now a fierce burn creeps up my ankles, growing like the loneliness of the last leaf upon a tree. Inside, hot cocoa and socks welcome me, The burning subsides. Dad tousles my ash-tinted hair, a grimacing smile bluntly boasting his win. I write 'Hi' upon the recently fogged glass, allowing myself to admire my work- footprints too far to see and yards saving my memories.

Back and forth, back and forth, At this moment my entire world Is a white porch swing, paint peeling And sticking to my hands and legs.

Back and forth, back and forth, As the occasional car drives by And people lazily stroll past. They have nowhere in particular to go.

Back and forth, back and forth, I nod and smile at some, And ignore others, Lost in my own thoughts, Or occupied with pushing the cat off my lap, Or just feeling particularly rude.

Back and forth, back and forth, My entire world is this swing. For a few minutes, My life makes sense, As the concrete tickles the bare soles of my feet And the cat rubs up against my arm, Flicking its tail in my face.

The sweet aroma of apple pie cooling on the windowsill on a hot summer day, August. Stroll along gravel roads Kick the rocks underneath your worn out flip-flops Listen to the faint rumble of the John Deere in the bean field The moo of Holstein cows echo in the distance

Alongside the wooden barn with the chipped red paint Knee deep in lilies, dandelions, and butterflies The old merry-go-round twirls in the soft summer air Its creeks sing with the whisper of the wind You feel like swaying in the breeze Like letting the dry dusty Nebraska air take its toll on you Like being no more then a brown rusted merry-go-round in the wild flowers Blowing in the wind, growing with the tomatoes Spinning in the dusty summer days, Nebraska

Country Girlby Nicole Thompson

Sundays in the kitchen, baking chocolate chip cookies Dance class every Saturday Patchwork quilts on chilly November nights Baby pictures with tractors and Chevy trucks Grandpa George's John Deere on harvest mornings Playing with matches and lighters Piles of orange, yellow, and brown leaves on October afternoons Lego's, dress up, and Barbie every Saturday Rusty jungle gyms on Uncle Les's farm Twister, Monopoly, and Go Fish on January snow days Semis hitting highway rumble bars on summer nights Trains that rattle my windows every morning